


replacing fist over fist

by naimeria



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Extremis, Gen, M/M, serial cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimeria/pseuds/naimeria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony’s been told before he never does things in halves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	replacing fist over fist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theLiterator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/gifts).



Tony’s been told before he never does things in halves. It rings through his head in his mother’s voice, hears that dulcet concern, a hand on a sweaty brow. He was shaking then and he’s shaking now, muscles tight and sore from the ferocity of it.

He’s hiding, that much he’s accepted. Would never own up to it, come prying eyes, but he recognizes it for what it is. The dark is reassuring, JARVIS keeping things quiet, and he has time to slowly melt down alone, time still to rework himself again.

It’s a process. Just a process, familiar and alarming though it may be. Research has helped him understand, but not fix. Coding’s wrong, one piece misaligned, he just has to –

Searing pain reminds him thinking is _bad,_ especially when it involves numbers. He thinks his nose is bleeding, and he presses his face into the pillow, not needing to suppress the groan it elicits. Extremis has always been finicky, but this is just madness. It feels like he’s functioning half a second too late, always a step and a half behind what his brain is trying to do. Runaway train, and he hears his mom again, feeling all sorts of incompetent and hating himself for it.

What he wouldn’t give for Steve’s warm hand at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, murmuring senseless and futile comforts that only his own stupid brain could really bring.

“Wrong guy. Hope I’ll do.”

The words make him jump, mouth opening to argue, but the blood must have found its way down his nasal cavity and throat, because words turn to gurgles and rough coughs. He unconsciously tries to call for assistance, blood content analysis and digital heart rate readouts, and almost passes out for his trouble.

“Jesus, Stark,” Bucky is saying, “they really did a number on you.”

He wants to say words like an intelligent human, but he can’t seem to stop coughing, which is pretty inconvenient. The bed shifts, and there’s that hand, though it’s on his back instead of his neck. The warmth spreads through it, and its small blessings that Bucky realizes what’s happening, keeps his left at a distance.

The patting turns to rubbing before long, and Tony’s ready to pass out, thanks, so he sags in the down comforter, tired of thinking at all. “Come on, man,” Bucky says. Tony wants to ask exactly what he wants, but all he can do is hum, and just like that, there’s a lot more warmth where that came from.

Tony’s a serial snuggler, always has been, and he won’t turn down an offer, especially when his brain is slowly trying to turn itself into alphabet soup. He’s too busy burrowing into the warmth like a wounded animal that he misses Bucky’s words the first time.

“Hey, I said, look at me.”

Got that tone down pact, Tony notes. He does as he’s bid, the dark room lit by so many stars and skyscrapers on the other side of the window. Bucky’s right there, thumb pad on his bruised cheekbone where he’d managed to careen into the doorframe right before JARVIS shut down the armor channel. His eyes are dark, hair tied back into that bun Natasha seems to like seeing him in. Tony agrees with her assessment.

“They’re doing that thing again, Tony,” he says, tone low and thinly laced with concern. “There’s no blue at all.”

“Sorry,” Tony says, voice rough from apparent lack of use. “Side effect.” He blinks, trying in vain to clear away the black, knows it makes them all uncomfortable at the best of times. Bucky’s face goes pinched, and he rubs Tony’s cheekbone again.

They find a sort of balance, Tony not quite clinging and Bucky not quite pandering, both finding comfort in each other’s airspace. There’s burrowing and tangled limbs, and Tony isn’t proud, and he might be bleeding a bit on Bucky, but he doesn’t feel quite like he’s dying anymore.

Something cold touches his spine, and he knows exactly what it is, and he jumps despite himself, but it isn’t loud, just _cold_. Bucky flinches as hard as he does, though, and Tony flings a hand up like a disjointed octopus, finding skin and clinging to it. “Don’t,” he says, and he’s amazed at how needy he sounds, only he really isn’t. He wants a lot right now, doesn’t know how to get it, doesn’t know if he ever will.

Bucky relaxes under his grip, but keeps his arm away anyway. Misunderstanding.

“Its fine,” Tony tries to elaborate, pulling words out of the deep recesses, and then he’s coughing again, because gross.

“Stupid,” Bucky says, but pulls him close, leans him just right so the blood mists the sheet instead of their chest. “Gross,” he adds, just because he can.

He wants to retaliate, he really does, but breathing is a challenge, so he’ll leave it for another day. Bucky is holding him close and steady, and Tony feels solid through the shakes and gasps. When he’s done, and his head is back to the steady throbbing that’s matching his jackknifing heartbeat, he finds no shame in how quickly he gleans as much comfort from Bucky as possible. An ample supplier, it seems, Bucky pulls him in, bodies flush, both arms wrapped around his back. Good; he listened.

“You gotta stop doing this to yourself, man,” Bucky says.

Tony shakes his head. Bucky’s chest heaves on a sigh, and there’s a mouth pressed to his hair. Huh.

His face finds Bucky’s collarbone and decides it would like to be well acquainted, cheek resting on the skin right above it. The heat is almost burning, something he thinks they can both take comfort in, and Tony doesn’t know when he loses himself to it, but he thinks Bucky’s talking quietly in Russian when he does.


End file.
